


you say sochi, i say fuck me

by spookyfoot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Katsuki Yuuri, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, It is now, M/M, Omega Victor Nikiforov, as per usual it's all about the jokes, essentially the a/b/o is there in the background so i can make jokes, is that a thing?, this is basically a/b/o light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-31 12:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12132669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: “You couldn’t find your room key,” Victor continues, “and I certainly wasn’t going to let you sleep alone.”“What…happened?” Yuuri squeaks, wincing. His voice cracks in a way it hasn’t since Victor skated toRite of Spring.“Oh!” Victor somehow leans even closer and now Yuuri can see Victor has a matching set of freckles scattered across his nose. “You showed me your pole!”“Oh my god.” But clearly God is dead because Yuuri is still alive right now.Victor continues, utterly oblivious to Yuuri’s distress, “….dancing skills. Pole dancing skills. Sorry, I had your come stuck in my throat.” He punctuates it with a conspiratorial wink.Yuuri stares, dumfounded as his brain goes offline. He's not sure which part of that sentence is more horrifying._____Yuuri wakes up in Victor's room after the Sochi Banquet.





	you say sochi, i say fuck me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maydei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/gifts).



> written for the free square prompt! 
> 
> this is a/b/o LITERALLY for one joke. okay maybe two jokes. but definitely for the jokes. (guess which one(s)!) 
> 
> i went the hermaphrodite omega route (a la feelslikefire, forochel, alykapedia and probably some other people i'm forgetting) because even though there's no sex in this...idk plausibility? of an inherently implausible trope? yeah i'm ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ too.
> 
> many thanks to the aforementioned forochel for helping me course correct this fic and beta'ing! and also for listening to me whine about it endlessly. I OWE YOU AND YOU ARE A GIFT.
> 
> also thanks to meg and nuri for looking this over and helping me revise.

Yuuri wakes up to a mouth that tastes like the inside of a garbage disposal and what must be an anvil on his forehead. They’re accompanied by the hot hold of an arm slung around his waist, and the realization that he must have shoved four years of poor decision making in his luggage. It's probably not too late to add "absolute fuckwittery" to his degree, he's got enough credits to double major. 

Phichit, if Yuuri were to text him, would call it opportunistic decision making. Phichit’s also the reason Yuuri’s been talked into five separate appearances at Tiger Temptress’ Amateur Nights and as many post-walk of shame showers in Detroit Skating Club’s locker room as Victor Nikiforov has gold medals.

Not to mention the fact that Phichit bought Yuuri a dildo and a masturbatory aid apparently based off of Victor Nikiforov’s cock and cunt—both unlicensed, but very popular on dark web figure skating forums. He also casually—that is to say, not casually at all—mentioned that the local omega-for-hire website had a couple providers who were exactly Yuuri’s type (ash blonde hair, blue eyes, tall) and that had availability for Yuuri’s rut.

So.

Yuuri is very suspicious about how Phichit categorizes decision making.

A puff of hot, damp air on the back of his neck shakes Yuuri back to the present. Right. He’s got a companion. Oh god, is this even his room?

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri stills. He knows that voice. If humans could physically evaporate at will, Yuuri would be a million separate molecules right now. _I must still be drunk_ , he thinks, even though his headache provides a thousand pounds of evidence to the contrary.

“Yuuuuuuuuri.” Maybe he’s hallucinating, or someone stuck a tape recorder and a sex doll in bed with him. That second one would make a lot more sense than what actually happens, which is Victor fucking Nikiforov gently rolling Yuuri over onto his back so that Victor can pin him between his arms and stare down at him with a quirk of the lips that’s more smirk than smile.

“Yuuri, I’m beginning to think you’re ignoring me.” Victor pouts. It’s unfair, really, that someone should look so attractive while they’re mocking him. But Victor has thirty gold medals worth of unfair, so clearly the universe isn’t listening.

Yuuri opens his mouth—truthfully, he’s not sure why, it’s never worked out for him in the past—to assure _Victor Nikiforov_ he’s not ignoring him. Instead he blurts out, “Why are you in my room?”

(Part of Yuuri already suspects the answer to that question, but the other three quarters of him is laughing at that fourth for being so presumptuous.)

“Actually, we’re in my room!” Victor’s so close Yuuri can see the smatter of freckles constellationed across his chest. They’re framed by purple-red blooms of bruises and bite marks that continue in vines up his throat.

“Oh.” Because, really, what is there to say to that?

“You couldn’t find your room key,” Victor continues, “and I _certainly_ wasn’t going to let you sleep alone.”

“What…happened?” Yuuri squeaks, wincing. His voice cracks in a way it hasn’t since Victor skated to _Rite of Spring_.

“Oh!” Victor somehow leans _even closer_ and now Yuuri can see Victor has a matching set of freckles scattered across his nose. “You showed me your pole!”

“Oh my god.” But clearly God is dead because Yuuri is still alive right now.

Victor continues, utterly oblivious to Yuuri’s distress, “….dancing skills. Pole dancing skills. Sorry, I had your come stuck in my throat.” He punctuates it with a conspiratorial wink.

Yuuri stares, dumfounded as his brain goes offline. He's not sure which part of that sentence is more horrifying. 

Then he looks down and notices three things: one, they’re both naked, two, Victor is smooth _everywhere,_  and three, those toys Phichit bought for him are surprisingly accurate. Yuuri can practically hear Phichit gloating that he should have “trusted in the power of the dark web, _Yuuri_.” It’s like Yuuri has one of those cartoon angel and devil figures perched on his shoulder—except it’s just Phichit live tweeting all of his poor decisions.

Abort, abort. Yuuri _really_ doesn’t want to think about Phichit while he’s in bed with _Victor Nikiforov_ . And getting a wave of Victor’s scent—snow, cloves, and something else Yuuri’s unable to name—which makes Yuuri _very_ aware of exactly how naked they are.

Victor clearly notices too, since he looks down, rolls his hips _just short_ of grinding, and flutters his eyelashes. “Since you fell asleep on me last night you really ought to buy a man dinner first.”

Yuuri flushes what he imagines is the most unattractive shade of red possible in any and all universes. He’s saved by his own incompetence when he remembers he _has a flight to catch._

“What time is it?” he chokes out. 

Victor rolls over, away from Yuuri, to pluck his phone from the night stand. “Just past noon.”

“Fuck.” Yuuri shoves the heels of his palms against his eyes. He’s missed his flight.

“That was the idea, yes.”

Yuuri feels that awful sticky well of sobs building up in his throat, joining the hangover hurricane whirling just behind his eyelids. He doesn’t want Victor to see him like this, but that’s not an option, so the best his muddled mind can manage is to make sure that _he_ can’t see Victor. That’s how that works, right? You can’t see them, they can’t see you?

(That’s definitely not how it works.)

“Yuuri?” A set of long, slender fingers twine around his wrist. “What’s wrong? Did I…?”

“No!” The last thing Yuuri wants is for Victor to blame himself. That’s Yuuri’s job. “I missed my flight. I’m not sure when I can get another.” He’s also not sure if he can afford another without the prize money from Sochi, but he’s not going to _say that_. Yuuri’s stomach growls, apparently having decided that this is a prime opportunity to make its discontent known. He pulls his palms away from his eyes to glare at it.

Victor’s still holding onto him gingerly rubbing soft circles over the scent gland on the inside of Yuuri's wrist.

“Let’s order room service!” Victor’s oddly bright tone is completely at odds with his frown, but Yuuri’s in no state to parse his own emotions, let alone Victor’s.

Victor pulls a menu from the information booklet on the desk that’s basically a glorified vanity at this point, with the number of products that Victor’s piled on top of it. He has to push aside at least three cosmetics bags before he retrieves it from the wreckage with a triumphant flourish.

They order two plates of syrniki and a plate of fruit which Victor _insists_ on pairing with mimosas. Victor excuses himself for a quick shower while they wait, lingering at doorway to the bathroom and staring at Yuuri with an inscrutable look. Just as he fully closes the door he opens it again, smiling when he sees Yuuri is still there. Meanwhile, Yuuri gazes around the room, a bit lost, contemplating an exit strategy he’s not sure he wants to use.

Instead of deciding, Yuuri hunts for his phone and finds it—dead—in the pocket of his pants that are somehow draped over the top of the large wooden armoire on the other side of the room. Victor emerges from the bathroom, towel drying his hair, still entirely nude. Yuuri remembers that _he’s_ still naked, and runs past Victor to snatch a robe from the bathroom, skidding across the wet tile. Victor pouts on the bed and wraps himself in the sheets they’d dislodged from the mattress—he looks like a sculpture.

As the son of two people who run an inn, Yuuri shudders at the thought of what sort of fluids are coating those sheets. As an alpha, he’s inordinately pleased Victor wants to wrap himself in their mingled scents. He throws a pair of sweatpants lying on the floor at Victor anyway and cringes when they land neatly on top of Victor’s head. Victor forces a laugh and pulls them on.

When Yuuri hovers at the edge of the bed, Victor's eyebrows draw together. Then he holds out his phone charger, pats the space on the bed next to him before offering Yuuri a smile and and hastily re-directing his gaze to his phone. He’s hit with a wave of their combined scents, and god, he’s glad the robe is thick terrycloth.

Yuuri face is  _actually_  on fire, but he tiptoes closer, pausing to plug his phone into to the outlet before perching on the edge of the bed. He doesn't want to take up too much space. Not to mention, he needs to grab his things from his own room; the hotel’s undoubtedly already charged him a late check-out fee. He also _really_ doesn’t want to take the elevator down to the sixth floor in a robe. Though really, what’s one more indignity?

He sighs, fidgets with the belt wrapped around his waist, and glances over his shoulder where Victor’s entirely ignoring his phone, apparently entranced by the spot where the curve of Yuuri’s neck meets his shoulder. Yuuri slaps a hand over his scent gland and flushes.

“Yuuuuuri,” Victor has absolutely no right to sigh his name like that. Not right here, in front of the plate of syrniki and the rapidly dissolving remnants of Yuuri’s dignity. “What’s wrong?”

Yuuri tries to disguise his racing thoughts as a really inconvenient itch. It’s not going well.

“My things are all still in my room. I was supposed to check out at eleven.” He pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth. Oh god, what if they’ve already auctioned off all his clothes to whatever Russia’s version of the Salvation Army is?

“Oh, that’s all?” Victor's face brightens.  

 _That’s all?_ Yuuri screams internally. _Do gold medals buy you eternal calm? Is it some sort of deal you made when you entered Juniors? Where do I sign?_

Victor lifts the hotel phone out of the cradle, dials, and spits rapid-fire Russian into the receiver. Yuuri’s just able to recognize _sbasibo_ before Victor returns the phone to the cradle and whips around to beam at Yuuri. “It’s all taken care of, someone will bring your bags up here in a couple of hours.”

“Oh, um, thank you?” _Could I sound more ungrateful?_

“Come here?” It might be one of the only things Victor’s said in the past hour that doesn’t sound like innuendo. Yuuri slides a little closer and Victor inches closer, closer, closer until he’s pressed against Yuuri’s side.

This close, Yuuri smells the underlying scent of skin beneath the swirling fragrance he’s learned to recognize as _Victor_. Victor presses their wrists together, subtly scenting him. At the side of the bed, Yuuri’s phone buzzes to life—and doesn’t stop buzzing for a good minute. How many messages has he missed? Clearly too many for him to even contemplate unlocking it.

(He ignores the fact he probably needs to book another flight.)

A knock sounds on the door and Yuuri outright catapults off the bed, rushing to answer it. The room service attendant wheels the cart in, not even bothering to avert their eyes from the utter mess Yuuri doesn’t remember making. He catches Victor sliding a roll of bills into the attendant’s hand as he leaves—money may or may not buy happiness but it certainly buys discretion.

Victor arranges the cart next to the bed, leaving a clear space for Yuuri, who tries to take up as little space as possible. He’ll focus on the food. He can do food. He’s good at food.

(He’s probably too good at food.)

On the other side of the bed, Yuuri’s phone continues buzzing, like a constant, low frequency siren screaming _you don’t belong here_ at regular intervals.

When they’ve finished their syrniki, Victor insists on feeding him slices of strawberry, suggestively catching the tips of his fingers just inside of Yuuri’s mouth. If he didn't know better, Yuuri'd say Victor's hand was shaking. Ridiculous. Yuuri swallows unnecessarily—at this point all the strawberries are gone.

Food mostly gone, Yuuri can’t keep quieting the voice in his head that’s beating the “you don’t deserve this” drum like it’s first chair in an orchestral percussion section.

“Don’t say that,” Victor frowns, shifting closer. Their thighs are pressed against one another.

“Say what?”

Victor places a finger beneath Yuuri’s chin, dragging Yuuri’s gaze to meet his own. “Do you not want to be here?” Victor drops his hand from Yuuri’s chin so that it rests halfway up his thigh.

Later, Yuuri will remember this moment: the shine of strawberry juice kissed into Victor’s lips, the wave of arousal he smells cresting over Victor’s scent, the sharp note of cloves.

“I want to be here, but—”

“Please, don’t finish that sentence.” Victor presses a finger to Yuuri’s lips, temporarily silencing him, before Victor’s fingertips continue to drift, shaking a little, as they caress the outline of Yuuri’s mouth. 

Victor pulls back and Yuuri feels like crying for a moment before Victor trails his fingers over the curve of Yuuri’s cheek, shifting to the shell of his ear, and finally coming to rest against the back of his neck.

“Can I?” Yuuri must be projecting, because Victor sounds as uncertain as Yuuri feels. 

Because Yuuri wants to say yes. _Needs_ to say yes. He can _feel_ his lips shaping the words. But his brain, the idiotic, life-ruining, asshole that it is, is incapable of formulating anything other than a noise caught between a choke and a cough.

“Yuuri? Is this okay?” Victor’s face is flushed and only a meter away from Yuuri’s own, but he's . He smells so sweet. Oh, god, he smells _too_ sweet.

Naturally, Yuuri’s hangover, granted a life of its own through the universe's sense of comedic timing and Yuuri’s own virtuoso mastery of self-sabotage, decides to reassert itself. With a wave of violent nausea. As one does.

“Oh, god.” Yuuri can’t help but wonder why Batman bothered with that dumb as hell rasp when pain is an incredibly effective means of vocal distortion.

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s choices are flight—complete with a banana-peel-esque skid across the carpeted floor on his way to the bathroom—or unleash the kraken right there on Victor’s bed. Bathroom it is.

When Yuuri emerges ten minutes later, he can only hope that the what happens in the Presidential Suite bathroom stays in the Presidential Suite bathroom.

Victor’s reclining on the bed, robe draped _just so,_ revealing a sliver of his bare chest that Yuuri is _not_ equipped to deal with in the best of health and is I’m-getting-the-vapors levels of overwhelmed when he’s…well, as he is right now.

(At the very least, the Presidential Suite definitely comes with a fainting couch. Yuuri’s already determined the best way to fall from each possible angle. It was one way to distract himself from the bruises tattooed on the side of Victor’s throat. The throat that Victor kept tilting—almost like a gesture of submission. _No,_ Yuuri tells himself _, he’s probably still a little drunk and trying to regain his balance._ )

Even though he doesn’t move his arms, Yuuri _swears_ that Victor’s managed to slide the “v” of his robe open a little more. At this point it’s not a robe—it's a shawl.

The tender pink pout of Victor’s bottom lip juts out, his eyes dart to the empty space on the bed beside him—still a bit indented. Now that Yuuri’s not (quite) as scent drunk on Victor, it’s hard to reconcile the Yuuri of ten minutes ago with the Yuuri of right now. He’s sure he’ll manage to fuck it up somehow because when it comes to self sabotage, Yuuri’s so ruthlessly efficient he could go into consulting. He’s sure whatever forces influence the universe will appreciate his sense of tragic irony.

Yuuri pauses a little longer, and something like uncertainty flickers across Victor's face too fast for Yuuri to be sure it was there before it's gone. 

“Yuuuuri,” Victor says in _that voice_ with _those eyes_ and _oh god_. Yuuri’s posters never prepared him for this. Or for the wave of Victor’s scent, surrounding him. How can a scent _feel_ like it’s walking a pair of fingers up Yuuri’s chest?

Yuuri’s on the bed. Did his feet even touch the carpet or did Victor’s scent carry him over?

Before he'd presented, Yuuri'd always thought he'd be a beta. Plain, unscented, unnoticeable, uninteresting. All his ruts are carefully cordoned off from the rest of his life. He has no precedent for this and his predominant instinct is to act like an idiot. Every time. 

Victor carves himself into a crescent moon, hollowing out a space at his side for Yuuri to curl into. And Yuuri—Yuuri is weak.

Yuuri slides onto the bed, blinded by Victor’s beatific beaming smile, and fits himself  into the curve of Victor’s body. It hugs Yuuri like he was always meant to be there.

“Okay,” Yuuri mumbles. He’s not sure if he’s addressing Victor, himself, or the entire universe—probably all three.

“Okay,” Victor says, fingers drumming against Yuuri's back.

“Okay.” Yuuri’s sure if he says it one more time it’ll actually mean something. At least sort of sure. Potentially sure.

“Is this—?” Victor’s face is nanometers away from the bonding gland on Yuuri’s neck. It’s throbbing, a haunting anticipatory echo of his heartbeat.

“Yes,” Yuuri breathes.

“Yes, okay, or yes, you’re overwhelmed how dare I?”

Instead of answering, Yuuri nuzzles in closer, lips a whisper from Victor’s neck. “Yes, more than okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Am I going to have to say the third okay or are we breaking the pattern?”

“Surprise me.”

Yuuri can _feel_ Victor smiling against the side of his neck. “Okay.”

“Well, now you’ve ruined it.”

“Oh, no—how will I ever make it up to you,” Victor murmurs, lips hot against Yuuri’s skin.

“I’d say surprise me, but…”

“So cruel,” Victor chuckles, scent laced with soft, buttery warmth as he burrows his face into the curve connecting Yuuri’s neck with his shoulder.

Yuuri huffs a laugh. Silence stretches out between them, and for once Yuuri doesn’t feel the need to re-enact page 119 of his Avoidance and Evasion Survival Guide.

(Page 119 had always been his strategy of choice in Detroit. Yuuri took to wearing headphones at the rink even when he wasn’t listening to anything. If they couldn’t _prove_ he heard them he could avoid interacting with them _at least_ until the sun expanded and incinerated the earth.)

“This is nice,” Victor says, so softly that Yuuri almost doesn’t hear. ”It’s been awhile since I cuddled with anyone. Other than Makkachin.”

Yuuri’s heart wrenches in so many different directions it might as well be on a medieval torture rack pulled by the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

“Mmm. Nice,” Yuuri says, “Um...I mean..I bet Makkachin is the best cuddler.”

“Second best. She doesn’t smell as nice as you.”

It’s like someone’s aimed a laser directly at his face, it heats up so fast. _Victor_ thinks _he_ smells nice. “Um. Thanks. You too.”

“I’m sure you hear that all the time though.”

Yuuri can’t help the derisive snort that bursts out of his mouth. “Funny.” Shit. No. He’s not supposed to let Sober Yuuri show Victor how much of a loser he actually is. A loser with a dead dog, no medal, and a metric ton of shame.

“Yuuuuuri. Don’t be modest.” The soft skin underneath Victor’s jaw reveals nothing about his intentions. It still smells just as sweet.

“I’m not. Victor, I…” It’s easier to talk to an anonymous patch of skin on Victor’s body than to his face. “I don’t know who you thought I was but…I’m not. I get asked what my Friday plans are so my rink mates can laugh at me. Or because they feel sorry for me—“

“Yuuri, I don’t think—“

But much like Drunk Yuuri, No Filter Yuuri is relentless and impossible to contain. “Like when that alpha delivery man from Domino’s showed up with the free pizza and garlic knot combo.”

“That doesn’t sound like pity.”

“It was a limited time promotion.”

“ _Yuuri.”_

(Phichit had whined his name in the exact same exasperated tone.

“You actually believed that excuse?”

“They run promotions all the time!”

“Yuuri. He was ready to scent you in the dorm lobby!”

“I haven’t showered yet…that was probably why.”

Phichit sighed and opened the box of pizza, where sausage they hadn’t ordered spelled out “will you garlic knot me?” on top of the cheese.

“Limited time promotion,” Phichit had said, flushed and chewing his lip—clearly to keep from laughing. “For your dick maybe.”)

“I recognize pity when I see it. Trust me.”

“Do you?” Victor’s arms tighten around his waist. “Why do you think I’m here, Yuuri?”

“Umm.” This is clearly a trick question. The least Victor could do is offer him multiple choice options. Even the asshole standardized test makers have those—plus it’s assumed they’re trying to trick you. Yuuri's sure it can't be because he's an alpha—Victor's surely had no shortage of Alpha's preening at him since the day he presented. “Because it’s your room?” Several harsher answers swim around Yuuri’s head. He’s taken gold in the self restraint Olympics just by keeping those from slipping out.

“Well. Yes. But I hoped the other ones would be just as obvious.” Victor’s scent takes on a sharper note, something like the after-burn of too much mint.

“I. Um.”

“Yuuri.”

“Just. Um. Give me a second.”  

Victor sighs, the stretch of the exhale stabbing Yuuri right in the jugular. “No, Yuuri.”

“Just let me—“ Now Victor isn’t even going to give him time to answer? Of course he's fucked it up before it's really even started. His hip throbs, like he can still feel the sting of the ice, a day later.

“No. Yuuri. It’s you. I’m here for _you_.”

“I— _what?_ You can’t. _I can’t._ ” Yuuri pulls back from their embrace. The mint-sharp side of Victor’s neck feels unsafe.

“Yes I _can_. I’m very familiar with what I can and can’t do, Yuuri.” He bites his lip, the tender pink blooming red under pressure. “Although what _you_ can and can’t do…”

Yuuri’s managed to shove the last few days aside for the past couple of hours, buoyed by this morning’s unreality. But reality reasserts itself. Like always. “Right. Well. I can’t be…whoever I was last night. That’s not…I’m not…I’m just… _this.”_

“What do you mean _just this_?” Victor asks, voice a little pitchy.

Yuuri tries to swallow, but it catches on the way down. “What do you want me to be to you? Because…I can’t be that. That person. At least not without however many glasses of champagne I had.” 

“At least sixteen—” 

“ _Oh god_.”

 _“_ —But all you’ve had is a mimosa. And I still like you. Just as much. Maybe more—“

“—Sixteen?” 

“—Because, I just want you to be Yuuri. To stay who you are.” Victor forges on, biting his lip and firmly shifting his gaze away from Yuuri’s and to the floor. His voice wobbles, “then maybe I can stay who I am, too.”

“Why would I ever want you to be someone else?”

“You’d be surprised,” Victor mutters. Yuuri thought his heart couldn’t hurt anymore, but then his body’s always been able to reach new heights when it comes to capacity for pain.

Yuuri steels himself. “If…if I’m going to be Yuuri, I want you to be Victor.”

Oh, no, is Victor _crying_? Yuuri’s useless with people even when they haven’t started spontaneously producing saline. He lifts Victor’s bangs from over his eyes and thumbs away his tears.

“What are you doing?”

“You shouldn’t...don’t...please don’t cry.”

“Why? Because I’m _Victor Nikiforov_?”

“No…”

“Then _what?”_ Victor's voice cracks and Yuuri's heart crumbles with it.

Yuuri’s always been better with actions than words—he pulls Victor tight against his chest and rubs soothing circles over the nape of his neck. He hopes Victor can’t hear the staccato rhythm of his heart, threatening to break out of his chest. “Because you deserve to be happy. As Victor.”

Victor looks a bit startled doesn’t say anything, just hesitantly wraps his arms around Yuuri’s waist in return before leaning in to snuffle into his chest.  

After a while, Victor’s breathing slows. Yuuri moves his hand to Victor’s back, dancing sequences from Victor’s programs across his skin.

Yuuri almost dozes off, lulled by the rhythm of Victor’s breathing and the comforting heat of his body until the slightly tinny sound of a guitar strum breaks the stillness.

“Victor?” Yuuri mumbles.

Victor pulls him closer and ignores the phone.

“Victor, your phone.”

Victor sighs, turns towards the nightstand, and grabs his phone. He frowns at the screen before answering with a stream of unintelligible Russian. Well, mostly unintelligible—Yuuri recognizes the curse words from the hours he’s spent playing MMOs. Yuuri rolls over to stare at the ceiling. There’s something oddly comforting about the fact that Victor’s Presidential Suite has the same hideous popcorn ceiling as Yuuri’s room.

Victor hangs up and stares at the dark screen. He breathes in, then out, the exhale hissing through his teeth. When he turns to Yuuri, his smile stretches thin across his face. Yuuri’s reminded of the posters hanging on his wall in Detroit and frowns. He shifts so he can meet Victor's eyes.

“That was the airline, they got you a last minute seat on the next flight to Detroit. You had to be at the airport twenty minutes ago,” Victor’s fingers flex around his phone.

“What? How did you get my flight information?”

“I called while you were in the bathroom. And I have a relationship with the airline.”

“Oh.” Yuuri wasn’t aware time had ceased to move until it sped back up. “Well. I guess I should get my things?”

“They’re at the front desk.” Victor blows his bangs off of his eye. They fall right back into place. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” Yuuri says. Victor He’d get a tattoo of Victor’s face on his ass if Victor asked. He’s _already_ almost gotten a tattoo of Victor’s face on his ass on a night that didn’t even make the top ten of his most shameful college moments.

“Will you text me when you get to the airport? And on the plane? And when you land in Detroit?” Victor trails off a little, like there's another question he's afraid to ask.

Yuuri’s jaw drops so fast it has to be audible. He tries to cover it with a smile but it probably looks more like a facial tic than anything intentional. “Are you asking me for my number?”

“…Maybe.” The tips of Victor’s ears burn red.

“That’s a shame." For once Yuuri feels like he’s got the upperhand. “If you’d said yes, I might have given it to you.”

“Yuuuuuri,” Victor says over the sound of Yuuri’s laughter, he looks...relieved?

“I promise I’ll text you. Let me get my things and you can put your number in my phone.” Yuuri grabs his phone from the nightstand, then scans the floor for whatever articles of his clothing that made it to Victor’s room. Which is basically his boxers.

“Here,” Victor says, shoving a soft white shirt, a thin pair of grey sweats, and his team Russia jacket into Yuuri’s arms. “Wear these.”

“I can’t take this!” Yuuri’s had more fantasies about that jacket than he has fingers. And toes. He holds it out, attempting to give it back to Victor even as his mind screams _you idiot, take it and run_.

Victor smiles and sidles closer, hitting Yuuri with a fresh wave of his scent. “Send me yours and we’ll call it even.”

_____________

Two years after Sochi, they get married at a small seaside ceremony in Hasetsu. 

One year after Sochi, Yuuri proposes to Victor in Barcelona before beating him to the gold medal.

Six months after Sochi, Victor “just happens” to visit Hasetsu during the off season. And then “just happens” to stay there instead of going back to Russia that season.

Three months after Sochi, Yuuri pulls Victor down from the center podium for a kiss when he wins bronze at Worlds. 

One month after Sochi, Victor dodges every call on his phone during an unapproved week long visit with Yuuri in Detroit until the Other Yuri shows up in Detroit to drag him back to Russia. But only after Yuuri signs his poster.

One week after Sochi, Yuuri sighs while upgrading his data plan because he’s never texted anyone this much in his life.

One day after Sochi, Yuuri, sore and somewhat sleep deprived, texts Victor that he’s landed in Detroit.

Ten minutes after they leave the hotel room, Victor’s kissing Yuuri goodbye in the lobby while his cab idles by the curb.

“You too,” Victor whispers. “You deserve to be happy too.”

**Author's Note:**

> this might end up being a series because of a specific scene i want to write...stay tuned! or don't! curate your own experience!
> 
> the title of this....was not supposed to be the title. it was a joke from the gdoc i sent to my betas. and then i couldn't think of anything else. so here it is. as the final title. OOPS. 
> 
> now that ~my identity has been revealed~ I can say i'm [katsukiyuuristrophyhusband on tumblr](http://katsukiyuuristrophyhusband.tumblr.com)


End file.
